Windows
by 1000wordsmith
Summary: Glimpses into the world of Sherlock Holmes - and everyone in it. Chapter 2: "This man had flayed Sally open, left her completely vulnerable to the world and to her boss." One-shots will include anything and everything through the three seasons. I lean Sherlolly, but these one-shots are for all. No obvious romances because I like to try to stick relatively close to canon.
1. Chapter 1

**I don't own Sherlock. Of course. He predates me by about 100 years or so. The story below is the first of several one-shots I plan to publish. No character is safe (although I lean toward Sherlolly fics) and I'm dabbling in everything from Sally vs. Sherlock, to Sherlock vs. driving, to John and Sherlock vs. alcohol. Hope you enjoy!**

* * *

**Random Victim**

The sodding phone was so close. SO CLOSE. The screen had long gone dark, and Molly, through her failing vision, could see the light from the long lamp in her living room reflecting dully from the screen. It beckoned to her. _Just grab me,_ it said_. Call for help. You can do it._

But she really wasn't sure she could. A lone tear trickled down her cheek, and she sniffled, then whimpered as the wound in her side pulled agonizingly. Her jumper was already soaked in blood. There was so much of it, although Molly supposed she should have already known exactly how much was bleeding out of her. It was her job to know these things, after all.

There was certainly enough to ruin her jumper.

_That was my favorite jumper_, Molly thought dazedly as she looked down at the blood. She was having trouble focusing on any one thing. It was as if a fog had descended upon her senses. Everything was dulled. Even her own whimpers sounded as if they were coming from down a long, narrow tunnel.

Everything echoed. Her crying and sniffling, the sound of a dog barking somewhere down the street ... the quiet, shuddering breathing of the man who lay just a few feet from her. His head was turned toward her, eyes unseeing as he drew his last breaths. The man may have been handsome, in another time and place. His hair was light, similar to John's, and his face, now slack, had a rugged cut to it. Strong jaw. Hooked nose. Wide, brown eyes, similar to Molly's.

Except not. His eyes were fading quickly. So quickly. She still had time. Her life was draining out of her a bit more slowly with the spreading blossom of red on her jumper — _my favorite jumper_.

His life was nearly gone. His time was up.

And she'd been the one to take it.

It had happened so quickly. She had been about to retire to bed after a long night of watching Glee and drinking a bit of wine when she heard the knock on the door …

•••••••••

_* Thud thud thud *_

_Molly frowned when she looked at the clock on her living room wall. The numbers read that it was well past midnight._

"_Who in the world ...?"_

_For half a second — just half a second — Molly wondered if it were Sherlock. But she quickly dismissed the thought. He had a key, and as she'd learned, he didn't waste his time knocking and being polite._

"_Miss?" The voice was low and rough. Her heart skipped. She grabbed her cell phone off the table. It wasn't Sherlock._

_Toby, her cat, meowed softly at her from his spot on the couch as she stood uncertainly. She made her way to the door slowly, her socked feet sliding silently across the hardwood._

"_Miss, please. My mate is outside and I think — I think he may need a medic."_

_Molly bit her lip, unsure."I can call the police, if you like," she answered back._

_A beat of silence. She heard heavy breathing just on the other side of her door. She made sure her latch chain was still on before she unlocked the deadbolt. "I'm a doctor. What's wrong with your friend?"_

_The silence stretched. Then, his voice. It had a keening, desperate edge to it. "Miss, please, I don't ... I don't know. He-he just ... I'm worried he may be dead."_

_Molly's heart flipped again. Not out of concern for her, but for the poor man in the street. She reached for the door knob. But she hesitated. Maybe if she just kept the door cracked and left the chain on … Yes. That was the idea. She wasn't about to let a stranger into her flat. _

_She turned the knob, cracked the door slightly. "I'll call police —"_

_But she couldn't finish her sentence. The man had been ready. He rammed a stout shoulder into her door just as she turned the knob, and the door flew open, the chain and splinters flying as he rushed through what remained of the entryway. Molly stumbled back and screamed as the man — much taller and bigger than her — barreled through the doorway._

I bet he doesn't even have a friend out on the street_, she thought, suddenly disgusted with her naiveté._

_The man reached for her, his brown eyes glinting darkly. Molly knew what he wanted. She'd examined plenty of young women with the signs of sexual abuse. He'd come just for that. He wasn't a money thief._

_Molly wasn't going to let that happen. "No!"_

_She scrambled backward, barely noticing Toby making a mad dash for her back bedroom in the chaos, as the man lurched forward. She smelled alcohol. He reeked of it._

_Her phone. Her phone! Where the hell was it?! She saw the pink case. Lying just to the side of the doorway. With a yelp, she changed direction, her legs scrabbling for purchase on the wooden floor. Molly couldn't help but scream again when he came down on her, his body weight crushing her into the floor, forcing the air from her lungs._

_He flipped her onto her back, eyes gleaming with what Molly would only describe later as pure evil. She'd seen it in Moriarty. She saw it here, in her would-be rapist's dark eyes. Without thinking, she reached up and raked her fingernails across his face. He roared as the welts began to bleed._

_Then he backhanded her, and she gasped as the pain exploded across her cheekbone. Her left eye felt as if it were going to pop out of its socket, the pressure was so great. Stars swam in her vision, and she thought she had heard a crack from her broken cheekbone. The man sneered, his crooked, yellow teeth bared animalistically. That's all he was. An animal. No humanity in those eyes._

Oh God._ Her thoughts were racing, swirling around the realization that she may die tonight. _

_Was this going to be it? Was she going to be a random victim? A body on a slab, beaten and bloodied? With a pathologist not unlike Molly frowning sadly above her, wondering what her last thought was before she was raped and killed? Or Sherlock? Molly's breath hitched as she fought against the man's huge hands, as he struggled to pin her flailing arms to her sides._

_God, Sherlock. Would he be called to the scene? She imagined — and later she realized her wandering thoughts were a defense mechanism, an attempt by her mind to remove her from what was about to happen — Sherlock's bright, intelligent eyes narrowing as he took in her beaten body. She doubted he would cry. He was Sherlock._

_She imagined him kneeling beside her, brushing a stray auburn lock of hair from her face to examine the raw, bruising wound on her cheekbone. She imagined John standing behind him, sucking in a sharp breath, saying "Oh Jesus."_

_She imagined Greg's head bowed, his mouth set in a firm line, as he watched Sherlock coldly tick off her injuries, the evidence of the struggle. Perhaps Sherlock would find him._

_Yes, perhaps — perhaps Sherlock and John would hunt this horrible man down. Molly's eyes snapped back to his face. Her attacker. He was still grinning. Her arms were pinned down with his knees._

"_Now just stay still, and it won't hurt much, love." The man's voice dripped with triumph._

_Molly let her eyes slide away from his, seeking something, anything to focus on. She wished she could be very, very far away from what was about to happen._

_And then, a sudden, chaotic ball of fur. Toby!_

_The cat snarled as he streaked across the living room, and all of a sudden he was on the man's shoulder, claws digging into coat and skin. The man howled as Toby held on for dear life. Molly's arms were suddenly free as the man reared backward. She used the man's sudden lack of focus to shove him backward, mightily, with a grunt. He went flying, windmilling his arms as he fell on her coffee table. Her glass-topped coffee table. The glass shattered, and without thinking, she was moving, grasping a piece of jagged glass in a trembling hand. She felt the blood. She knew she was holding it firmly enough to cut into her palm. But she didn't care. That was the least of her worries._

_Toby, with another yowl, was gone, a flash of white and gray as he flew into the hallway._

_The man was still groaning and trying to pull himself upright. Molly made a mad dash for her phone. But before she could reach it, he was there again, holding a similar wicked-looking piece of glass. Molly struck first, not thinking, just running on pure "I have to LIVE" instinct. The glass went deep, burying itself just underneath his sternum, on the left side. Lung, liver. Lots of arteries._

_Molly knew she'd dealt a deadly blow._

_But she didn't realize he'd started swinging too. Although she'd been faster, meaning she'd struck first, he still was moving, his arm arching, even as it began to lose strength. And the glass was there. THERE. In her left side, tearing muscle and fat and ... organs? Did he hit organs?_

_Pain, blossoming across her abdomen. So much … _

_She wasn't sure what was damaged. His attempt was more to the side. Hers was more direct._

_The man choked on his own breath, staring at her. He was shocked. Little Molly Hooper had proven to be more than he'd bargained for. But she hadn't emerged unscathed. The man sank to his knees and then pitched forward, coming to rest on his stomach. Blood pooled around him sickeningly. Molly wasn't usually bothered by blood and organs and death. But she'd never watched a man die in front of her either. Except for her father. But that had been different._

_Molly felt the strength leave her legs, and she slid down slowly, so slowly, until she was sitting on her floor. And then she was lying on her floor, on her right side, the wound on her left side beginning to throb as the adrenaline drained from her body._

•••••••

And now, she was watching as the final light left the man's eyes. Molly felt a grim satisfaction as his body relaxed, his last breath leaving his lungs with a soft sigh. It wasn't yet sinking in that she'd taken another life. But then again, she was worried about living herself.

He was gone.

But she had to get help. The wound wasn't fatal if she got help soon. But bloody hell, there was a lot of blood. She moaned as she craned her head to look at her phone. It was mocking her. God, her side HURT!

Keeping her left hand clamped on the wound, she scooted across the floor of her living room slowly, gasping as dark spots began dancing at the edges of her vision. The fog hadn't lifted. It was getting thicker. Her body was shutting down. Her right hand strained for the phone. She didn't notice the streak of rich, red blood that followed her slow, agonized movement across the floor.

She just noticed the phone. With a soft, pained sigh, her weakened fingers came around the phone. After what seemed like an eternity (but was actually a few seconds) she managed to unlock the screen. There was blood on it now. She wondered if phones were better with blood than they were with water.

It sounded like an experiment for Sherlock.

_Sherlock._

The screen opened up to her recent calls list. Sherlock's number was at the very top. They'd talked briefly earlier about some test results she'd gotten back on a body at the morgue. She hadn't called anyone after that, nor had they called her. Such was the life of the quiet pathologist.

It took several attempts, but she was finally able to highlight his number and hit "SEND." Her face was so close to the screen. She could make out the tinny sound of the other line ringing. He picked up quickly. The deep rumble that echoed up to her wasn't loud enough for her to make out the words, but she didn't care.

"Sherlock," she choked out, her eyes welling with tears. "Sherlock ... help me." Her voice was echoing again. It sounded so small and weak. She wondered if he even heard her.

"Molly?" His voice was louder now. She heard him call her name.

"Pl-please. A man ... at my flat."

The blood was everywhere.

"Blood?"

Oh, she'd said that last thought out loud.

"Molly, I need you to stay conscious. Stay awake, Molly." He was yelling now. She could hear him perfectly. She tried to answer back, but the dark spots that had hovered at the edge of her vision began moving in. They were taking over. Her eyesight was failing. So quickly.

Suddenly, she couldn't hold her head up. The blood … _my favorite jumper._

She saw the man's feet just beyond her own, unmoving. They were the last thing she saw before she faded away to the sounds of Sherlock's yells, rumbling from the phone that was her lifeline.

•••••••

"Jesus, Sherlock, she's lost a lot of blood," the voice was hovering right above her.

And with that sound, the rest of the world around her began to filter in. Molly felt herself returning, exhausted in mind, body and soul, to the land of the living. She felt someone's hands on her. Hands? The man — !

She tried to struggle even as she fought to open her eyes. No! The man! He was here! She hadn't killed him!

The hands moved to her arms. Pinning her. Pinning! PINNING!

She screamed as her eyes snapped open, and she barely felt the intense pain that radiated from her left side as she struggled to focus on the face above her. The man!

"Molly, it's alright!"

_No! Nononononono …_

She was still screaming, panicked beyond comprehension. Her mind wasn't working. Not working. Just fight. FIGHT!

"Molly, look at me!" The second voice was deep, and it sliced through her panic. The voice. The voice ... the hands weren't pinning like the evil man had pinned her. They were gentle. Different than the attacker. She slowed her movements. Squinted above her. The dark curls and sharp, blue-green eyes swam into focus. Sherlock.

With a gasp, she stopped struggling. Her head lolled limply as she let her neck relax. She was still in her flat. She was still lying on the floor. And GOD, her side was still SCREAMING at her!

The hands on her side were John's. The doctor placed a tender hand on her uninjured cheek. "It's alright, Molly. It's just us. Medics are on their way."

"John," she whimpered. "John, it hurts."

He nodded, eyes tired and concerned. "I know. You've lost a lot of blood. I have to keep pressure on it. You know that."

She sighed. She did know that. But it still hurt like hell.

She let her eyes slide back up to Sherlock's, right above her. He was staring into her own, a frown set deeply into his face. Then, those eyes moved to the man just beyond her. The glass. The blood. It wasn't hard to figure out what had happened.

"I killed him," Molly choked out, unable to stop the tears that fell down her cheeks. The wound on her left cheek stung as the salty liquid moved over it.

Sherlock nodded. "So you did."

"The bastard had it coming," John bit out as he pressed down a bit harder on Molly's side. She moaned. He frowned sympathetically. "That'll teach anyone to mess with our Molly."

She was still staring up at Sherlock. And he at her. She blinked away the tears and tried to concentrate on his swimming visage. She was so tired. She just wanted to sleep …

"No, Miss Hooper," Sherlock's voice wrapped itself around her, overcoming her muddled senses. "None of that."

She felt his hand on her uninjured cheek, where John's hand had been only moments before. It lingered there, and she felt him brush a strand of hair from her face. "Stay with us, Molly. Just a few more moments."

She let her right hand, so weak, hover off the floor. It took a great effort to move it upward, but she was rewarded when she felt it come to a rest above Sherlock's own hand, which was still gently lying on her cheek. She knew it was bloody, and she knew Sherlock Holmes didn't really enjoy human contact.

But she didn't give a damn.

She watched him, her vision graying around the edges again, and she saw his eyes widen, ever so slightly.

But his hand didn't move.

And through the pain, and the exhaustion, and the fear, she felt grounded. His hand on her cheek, her hand on his hand. In that moment, while her mind struggled to comprehend what she'd just endured, Sherlock's slender fingers and palm were very real. His hand was warm and comforting against her cool, clammy skin.

And then the medics were bursting in, and there was a flurry of motion. Sherlock's hand was suddenly gone, and she whimpered at its absence. Before she could say a word, someone was cutting her jumper off of her to get a better look at the wound.

"That was my favorite jumper," she couldn't help but grouse.

She saw Sherlock smile from just beyond the medic's shoulder.

"We'll get you a new one, Miss Hooper," he answered.


	2. Chapter 2: Sally and Sherlock

I don't own Sherlock. Of course. He predates me by about 100 years or so. The story below is the first of several one-shots I plan to publish. No character is safe (although I lean toward Sherlolly fics) and I'm dabbling in everything from Sally vs. Sherlock, to Sherlock vs. driving, to John and Sherlock vs. alcohol. Hope you enjoy!

**Sally and Sherlock: A Hate Story**

Sally Donovan's eyes perused the crime scene sharply, her mouth pulled into a thin line as she watched people gather around the police tape, stretched haphazardly between a light pole and a parked taxi. The body was shielded by the coroner's van, luckily, so the reporters who were scattered through the crowd didn't have the vantage point to take a quick picture.

She was on outlook detail — and she despised it. But she was the newbie at New Scotland Yard, and she was by far one of the youngest to climb up through the ranks, so she had to take what was thrown at her with little complaint, lest she be labeled a power-hungry up-and-comer. But wasn't that precisely what she was?

Sally smiled to herself as she watched Inspector Lestrade speak with a witness who came upon the body. Oh yes, she was aiming for Lestrade's job, some day. It wasn't that she didn't like him. He was actually a quite competent inspector, and she had no doubt he would be doing great things. But someday ... someday, she hoped to be in his position.

"In time, Sally," she muttered as she watched Lestrade's eyes rove over the body as the witness pointed out a spot of blood here, or a piece of torn clothing there.

She was lulled into a trance, her mind dancing over the crime scene and moving toward what she was going to have for dinner that evening, when a tall, dark-haired figure brushed past her quickly.

"Oi!" she said, snapping back to reality. "Oi! You can't go past that tape!"

The man stopped. His dark curls were ruffled by the wind as he turned to regard her coldly. He looked young. Perhaps as young as Sally, at 28 years old. His eyes, a strange combination of blue and green, flickered over her form quickly, calculatingly. Sally felt the need to hug her arms around herself, but she settled for taking a couple big steps toward the man who looked too young to be anyone of importance, but who's face gave a sense of immense superiority. He was actually quite handsome, with his long face, startling eyes and mop of unruly hair.

"I'm sorry?" he asked, his voice deep. The baritone would usually be comforting to a woman like Sally, but there was an undercurrent of complete and utter hatred, coldness ... and was that boredom? "I'm frightfully busy. Too busy to be bothered by —" he looked her up and down again. "Ladder climbers on watch detail hoping to make a name for themselves."

Sally, always quick to anger, saw red. "Until you can show me some type of identification, you need to get your skinny arse to the other side of the crime tape," she seethed. She felt her blood pressure rising. "And who in the hell do you think you are?"

The man's eyes narrowed, and his body seemed to still. He was thinking, she knew that much.

"Alright, that's enough. Time to go —" she moved to take his arm, clad in a thick woolen coat that moved around his thin, long legs in time with the wind.

He snapped back to reality, and took a step backward. "Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. I believe if you ask your superior as to my intentions here, he'll be able to give you the information you require."

"Det. Sally Donovan. And bollocks."

Sherlock sneered down at her. "Really? Let me allow you to demonstrate exactly why I'm here."

Sally paused. The man was dangerous. She could tell that. He stood for everything she didn't — he was obviously calculating, cold, manipulative (as he was trying to wiggle his way into some dark, insecure recess of her mind), and much too full of himself for her liking.

But damn those eyes, which were waiting for her response. They flashed with triumph before she even opened her mouth to speak.

"Fine, go on, then."

Sherlock's lips parted, but before he could get a word out, Lestrade was between them.

"Det. Donovan, I see you've met Sherlock Holmes."

Sally's eyes slid from Sherlock's to her boss's. "In a manner of speaking."

"I was about to show Det. Donovan why I'm here, as she felt the need to escort me from the premises," Sherlock all but snarled, still staring down at her. She was certainly shorter than Sherlock, but she didn't care. She stared right back.

"Oh God, not now, Sherlock," Lestrade groaned. "I want to get through one day without you making enemies with my employees."

"Yes, well," the younger man sniffed as he turned away from Sally and toward the body. "It isn't my fault that your employees are simpering, dull morons, the lot of them. No wonder you have to call me in."

Sally frowned so deeply she felt her face was about to crack. "Just what in the bloody hell can he do that we can't?" she spit out, and Lestrade and Sherlock turned back around. "Last I checked he didn't even have the credentials to be at a crime scene. Who is this guy, Inspector?"

Lestrade's face was one of abject horror. His mouth hung open dumbly, and she had a feeling she'd just done something terribly, terribly wrong. Sherlock looked like it was Christmas. His lips were pulled up into a strange smile, and he brought his hands out from his coat pockets, his long, lithe fingers twitching with anticipation.

"Sherlock, don't —," Lestrade's plea fell on deaf ears, and Sherlock stalked forward until he was again standing in front of Sally. She kept her composure cool and steady, but her heart pounded a staccato rhythm in her veins. All she could hear, for a few moments, was the rush of blood in her ears.

"Sally Donovan, 27, perhaps 28 years old. Quite young to have a detective's title, so no doubt on the war path to prove something to ..." Sherlock trailed off as he studied her intensely. "Your family. Your hair is sensible, yet not fashionable, nails bitten to the quick. No hand lotion — no perfume — You're the only female among you and your siblings. And with no mother around to show you how to do your hair or nails, you've become one of the blokes. You're the baby of the family, aren't you, little Sally? You're here because you have been considered the fragile, breakable one all your life, but you're not. You want to prove that."

Sally opened her mouth to cut in, quite dumbfounded, but he continued. "By the looks of your clothing, you slept at your desk last night. Quite necessary if you intend to climb the ranks and, one day, perhaps take Inspector Lestrade's job. But not so good on the personal front. No close friends to speak of, no significant other. You are married to your work, and intend to be until you can prove yourself to be the best New Scotland Yard has ever seen."

Sally couldn't stop her mouth from falling open. She looked to Lestrade, who had his head in his hands, trying to avoid the train wreck playing out before him.

"But your eyes are a bit bloodshot, your skin a bit clammy — evidenced by the slight sheen of sweat at your hairline, despite it being a cool, brisk day — and the lines at the corners of your eyes are not normal for a young woman, even one in your line of work, so I see dehydration as well. Does Inspector Lestrade know you're drinking at your desk after hours?"

Lestrade's head snapped up. Sally, mortified, wanted to melt into the ground right then and there.

Sherlock took another step forward, a predator, coiled and ready for the kill shot. His nose was just inches from her own as he stared down at her, and she looked up at him, her eyes narrowed into slits. She was angry, she knew that much. Everything else seemed to fade into the background as she stared back at him defiantly. What else could possibly be worse than what he'd just said? He'd basically outed her drinking issue to her boss.

"Ah, yes, and though you're no doubt angry with me for what I've just deducted ... easily noticeable by your defensive stance and the way your mouth is stretched across your face ... you're attracted to me as well."

Sally laughed. "What? Where in the bloody hell did you get that?"

Sherlock leaned forward. "Your eyes are dilated."

He leaned back again. "Though anger can produce the same physiological response, your pupils have been dilated since the second you met me, before the anger took over. Your body language, at first, had been one of invitation, as you tilted your head toward me as we spoke, exposing your neck, a subconscious reaction of a woman to one to which she finds herself sexually attracted. With the way you opened your body up, with a hand placed just so on your hip, I would risk a guess you were willing to engage in sexual intercourse quite soon after meeting me."

Sally could feel her right hand tingling, just itching for an impact with Sherlock's face. But she forced herself to keep it at her side.

"Do you proposition males just as excessively as you drink your liquor?" Sherlock asked, glowering. "Because it looks as if —"

That was it. Her hand moved of its own accord. There was a slap, and he was holding his cheek. Her hand stung from the contact, and she could see the redness blossoming under his hand. Still, he wasn't upset. He was actually smiling. The bastard was smiling!

Sally was shaking, she was so mad. Her body twinged with so many emotions, most of them quite negative, that she felt as if she would snap in two with the tension.

No one said anything for a few moments. Finally, Lestrade spoke up. His voice was resigned. "Well, now that introductions are out of the way ..."

Sherlock's eyes never left Sally's. She was desperately trying to think of something, anything to say, but her mind was blank. This man had flayed her open, left her completely vulnerable to the world and to her boss. He'd exposed not only the motivations behind her chosen career, but he'd pointed out her major, crippling fault that she struggled with daily. And not only that, he'd seen, immediately, her attraction to him — though he was helping her quickly move out of that phase — and he'd been on his way to calling her a whore when she slapped him.

He was moving away now, his eyes slipping from hers to Lestrade's as they turned back toward the body, Lestrade's shoulders hunched and defeated. Her chance was fading fast to say something, anything, back. Where in the hell did Lestrade find this guy? To have such freakish —

Sally's racing brain halted. She knew it was childish, and she knew she should be ashamed, but she couldn't help the word that escaped from her mouth. "Freak."

Lestrade continued to walk away, though she knew he heard it. Her boss flinched, and she wondered if she would be scolded by him later. But she'd had no choice. She'd devolved back to playground rules. They hurt you, you hurt them back, in any way you can.

But this was much deeper than throwing an off-handed insult to the wind. Sherlock had cut deeply into her vulnerabilities, and she wouldn't be forgiving him for that anytime soon.

Sherlock whipped back around, his eyes locking onto her yet again. She still saw the smugness, but she caught a hint of hurt, and for that, she took her own personal victory. He didn't say anything, just watched her as she moved toward him, this time on the offensive.

"Yeah, I like that nickname. Freak," she said the word forcefully, venom dripping from each letter as they rolled from her mouth and outward. Each letter a dagger aimed at trying to find that deep, vulnerable place that Sherlock had touched in her.

Sherlock looked as if he was considering a response, but after a slight hesitation, he simply turned away. "I see my deductions were spot-on," he threw over his shoulder, as a way of saying goodbye.

Sally frowned. Damn him. "Be seeing you, freak."

Sherlock didn't answer as he joined Lestrade and stood over the body. Sally returned to her post at the crime scene tape, her mind racing through what had just occurred. She had a feeling she was going to be having many run-ins with that despicable man as long as he stuck around to assist Lestrade.

She sighed. "What a nightmare he's going to be."


End file.
